The Best Thing For A

Desire Is Poison At Lunch And Wormwood At Dinner; Your Bed Is A Stone, Friendship Is Hateful And Your Fancy Is Always Fixed On One Thing.

Poetry Is A Whim Of Nature In Her Lighter Moods; It Requires Nothing But Its Own Madness And, Lacking That, It Becomes A Soundless Cymbal, A Belfry Without A Bell.

He Who Has Not Been At A Tavern Knows Not What A Paradise It Is. O Holy Tavern! O Miraculous Tavern! - Holy, Because No Carking Cares Are There, Nor Weariness, Nor Pain; And Miraculous, Because Of The Spits, Which Themselves Turn Round And Round!

A High Heart Ought To Bear Calamities And Not Flee Them, Since In Bearing Them Appears The Grandeur Of The Mind And In Fleeing Them The Cowardice Of The Heart.

What Evil Is There In Seeing A Man Possess A Woman? Why, The Beasts Would Be More Free Than We!